


"the take over, the break's over"

by forfree



Category: RPF - Fandom
Genre: F/M, also bey is like 22 and her teacher's in his like 30s, im screaming eva and i talked abt this yesterday so i had to vomit something up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8224396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forfree/pseuds/forfree
Summary: Beyoncé’s Friday night entails sneaking into a holiday party held for university staff in order to get under her art professor’s skin, enjoying many finger sandwiches, and getting pulled into a supply closet by her previously mentioned art professor.





	

Beyoncé’s Friday night entails sneaking into a holiday party held for university staff in order to get under her art professor’s skin, enjoying many finger sandwiches, and getting pulled into a supply closet by her previously mentioned art professor.

 

* * *

 

“Oh my God,” Beyoncé groans as strong hands are planted firmly onto her back, less-than-gently pushing her into a supply closet that’s farthest away from the room the party is occurring in. “Watch the dress! I got it as a birthday gift from my mom.”

 

She’s turned around, and the bare lightbulb hanging above her and her professor's heads comes on. She looks down at the long sleeves of her dress when she notices his gaze lingering on her body. The black pattern glitters and the gold fabric under it shines in the light.

 

“Hey, Mr. Maskati,” she says, biting her lip and huffing out a laugh. “Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight. Small world, huh-”

 

“Cut it out, Beyoncé. Why did you come to the party? I explicitly told you not to, and you’re not even supposed to be there, anyway.” Mr. Maskati says somewhat shortly. 

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Maskati. I truly didn’t mean for you to see me at that party,” Beyoncé says. There’s barely any conviction in her tone and she can barely keep herself from smiling.

 

“You didn’t mean for me to see you? So, basically, you’re sorry you got caught?” 

 

He’s caught onto her game, and she can hear laughter bubbling up in his voice, though he makes a good effort to conceal it.

 

“Yeah, Mr. Maskati. I’m sorry I got caught,” she says defiantly, looking him right in the eye. 

 

He smirks. “You know what, Beyoncé? You had to work really hard to get to the very place you’re in at this moment. I can’t let good effort go unnoticed, that’d be rude.”

 

He turns her around, hands on her hips, and presses her to the wall.

 

“This is what you worked all night for, right- attention?” he asks, trailing soft kisses down Beyoncé’s neck. “You know I’d hate to pass up on giving you what you want.”

 

Beyoncé gently pushes up against her professor and feels that he’s hard. She smiles, lip caught between her teeth. “Really?” she asks. “Looks like my hard work paid off, huh?”

 

A low chuckle rumbles from his throat. “Shut up.” His hands find her thighs, sliding her dress up and rubbing her clit through her soaked panties.

 

“Don’t get mean, Mr. Maskati, come on,” Beyoncé says playfully, a quiet sigh slipping out of her as he teases her.

 

“You’re so demanding. I’m just a man, I can only do so much for you at once,” he jokes. “We’ve gotta cut the shit talking, fuck. People will ask questions when they notice that you and I are both gone for too long.”

 

She pushes his hands away and purposely takes her time sliding her underwear down her slender legs; she makes a show out of bending over to step out of them. Mr. Maskati snatches them out of her hand and stuffs them into his pocket. A disbelieving smile spreads across Beyoncé's face and she asks, “Really?”

 

Her professor huffs out a laugh and starts to unbuckle his belt. Beyoncé groans, frustrated with the sluggish pace things are going at. She slaps his hands away from his belt, pulling his pants down quickly. She turns back around to face the wall and wiggle her ass around impatiently.

 

“C’mon,” she whines, “Fuck me.”

 

“Fuck,” Mr. Maskati breathes as he ruts against her. She sucks in a breath at the friction.

 

“Hurry up, shit,” Beyoncé demands.

 

Mr. Maskati presses a hand into the small of her back so that it arches. “You’ve been so mouthy all night, so rude. What gives, huh?” 

 

He stops teasing her and sinks into her slowly. She breathes out an airy sigh. When his fingers dig into her hips, she shivers at the faint discomfort that comes with the sensation. He fucks her at a leisurely pace and she wants to bite out, “you’re a hypocrite,” but decides against it. She thinks about it further and decides against her previous decision.

 

“Hypocrite,” she says breathily.

 

Mr. Maskati rolls his hips and Beyoncé shudders. “What was that?”

 

“I said you’re a fucking hypocrite, Mr. Maskati,” Beyoncé answers with a groan. “All this “we’ve got to hurry up,” shit and you’re treating this like you’re taking a stroll in the park. You're being soft.”

 

He stops moving altogether and grabs her wrists, holding them behind her back with one hand and and wrapping an arm around both of her shoulders. Her back is arched beautifully and her hair is in almost in his face.

 

“You can handle this?” he asks smugly.

 

Beyoncé rolls her eyes. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Maskati. You know me better than that,” she bites back.

 

“Shit, you’ve had such an attitude today,” he grunts with a snap of his hips. She gasps. He sets the pace again, and it’s a quicker and rougher one. “I know you’re better than that, Beyoncé.”

 

Beyoncé’s skin feels like it’s on fire, and when her teacher’s meets hers, she’s desperate for more.

 

“Sure I am- fuck,” she says shakily as Mr. Maskati sucks at the soft skin on her neck. 

 

“You and that fucking mouth,” her professor murmurs in her ear heatedly as his hips pound. “Look where it got you, too- but then again, you wanted this, correct?”

 

Beyoncé shudders; she can only let a low moan come out of her mouth in response. It’s almost drowned out by the sound of skin on skin. 

 

“I asked you a question.” His thrusts get a little rougher and Beyoncé can feel a coil in her stomach tighten. She whines his name loudly. “Try to keep the noise down.”

 

“Yeah,” she says roughly. “I wanted this so badly. Fuck.” Her sentences are punctuated by loud, ragged moans and she clenches around him.

 

“Fuck,” he growls, the pace of his thrusts getting more erratic. “Good girl.”

 

His praise drives her mad; it satisfies something inside of her to know that she’s pleased him. 

 

“Come in me,” she says. 

 

“Your dress-”

 

“I don’t give a shit about my fucking dress. It- and me acting up- did its job. It got your attention, it got you in here, didn’t it? Fucking do what I asked you to,” Beyoncé says pointedly.

 

With that, Mr. Maskati lets go of her so that he can hold one of her legs up while he thrusts into her. With his free hand, he reaches around her and uses his thumb to massage her clit, and she’s seeing stars.

 

“Like always, you’ve been so good at taking this, Beyoncé,” he coos. 

 

She bites her lip so hard that she thinks it might bleed, but a shout fights its way out of her still yet when he angles his hips.

 

“Shut up, fuck,” Mr. Maskati says gruffly, his thrusts sloppy. "You're gonna get us caught. You don't want that, do you?"

 

“I’m about to come,” Beyoncé whimpers frantically. It feels like the pit of her stomach is filled with fire, and she’s losing her mind. 

"I didn't ask you about that. I need an answer, Beyoncé," her professor says, his voice low.

"No, sir," she answers. She feels dizzying pleasure from her head to her toes and her heart is racing. 

 

“Smart girl. Go ahead, come for me,” he tells her, leaving kisses on her shoulder.

 

She comes with a choked out moan, her hips jerking and her body tensing up; her professor comes with her.

 

He pulls out and quickly sinks to his knees in front of Beyoncé, pushing his head in between her thighs and eagerly lapping at his come. She shakes, her knees almost buckling, and grabs at his hair with her hands. He starts to suck on her clit and she cries out, yanking his head away from her because she’s so sensitive.

 

Beyoncé feels light and hazy. “Lemme suck you off, Mr. Maskati,” she rasps, waiting patiently on her knees. He stands up, and she takes the head of his dick into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it and sucking on it, taking his dick further down her throat after she hollows her cheeks. He shudders above her. She makes eye contact with him as she pops off and slowly licks up and down the underside, running her tongue along a vein. 

 

“Fuck,” he moans, “stop, Christ.”

 

She smiles at him and he helps her stand up. He pulls his pants up, tucks in his shirt, and tries his best to fix his hair. Beyoncé is about to walk out when Mr. Maskati stops her.

 

“Pull your dress down.”

 

“Before I do that, can I have my panties back?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“No.”

 

Beyoncé laughs, pulls her dress down, and walks out. She takes a look at her professor and tells him to stop walking; she fixes his shirt for him because it’s not tucked in correctly and gives him a sweet smile.

 

“You look sexy,” Beyoncé says, her voice a little ragged.

 

“You don’t look so bad either, Miss Knowles.”

 

“Miss Knowles? We’re not in class.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“You, not having regard for the opportunity to address me informally? That’s sexy, Mr. Maskati.”

 

“Shut up.”

 


End file.
